


Anxious

by fractionallyfoxtrot



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Multi, POV Second Person, Pre series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-26
Updated: 2014-01-26
Packaged: 2018-01-10 01:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1153105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fractionallyfoxtrot/pseuds/fractionallyfoxtrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin's gone to take the CPL exam, leaving you with nothing to do but wait.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Anxious

Anxious.

That’s how he makes you feel. That’s how he’s always made you feel.

Some of it’s secondhand; he’s so anxious himself. Constant questions, constant reassurances. Yes, Martin, that was funny. Yes, Martin, it is lovely. Yes, Martin, that’s... oh, _yes_ , Martin. (He really is a quick learner.)

Some of it’s personal; you’re always a little anxious when you really care. Little thoughts, big thoughts, traces of him constantly cross your mind. Will he like this? Why is he like that? What was that plane called again? (You really should’ve written it down.)

Some of it, though... some of it’s shared.

You bring the mug in your hands to your lips, not realizing that your drink’s gone cold until the liquid hits your tongue and you involuntarily sneer at it for not warning you that it lost its pleasant warmth some time ago. A time when drinks were warm reminds you of the time and you look over your shoulder at the clock.

Late; he’s never late.

Why would he be late?

You push the question from your mind, shaking your head at yourself for beginning to think of consoling remarks. He could pass; he studied and practiced and drilled until you were _both_ muttering CAA regulation in your sleep. He has every chance of passing.

Six failed attempts.

You get to your feet quickly and go to the kitchen, hoping to leave the negative thoughts in your wake. The floor is cold beneath your feet. You turn on the tap, intending to rinse out your cup, and look down at his. White with a blue silhouette of an aeroplane, the exact opposite of the sky. Your fingers trace over the design on yours.

Why is he late?

The familiar sound of keys and locks turns your head and draws your attention to the obvious, but constantly forgotten, fact that you can’t see the door from here. You turn off the tap and drop your mug almost carelessly in the sink. You become more anxious as you make your way to the front door.

He’s staring at the floor as he takes off his coat; his movements are slow and halting as if he doesn’t have enough mind power to dedicate to the task. When it’s finally off, he holds it loosely in one hand, letting most of it settle on the ground.

He’s still staring at the floor.

“Martin?”

His head snaps up and he drops his coat entirely. His face is surprisingly neutral. He’s looking at you but it looks like he doesn’t see you.

There’s only one way to know for sure.

“How did it go?”

“I passed.”

He says it so quietly and cautiously you’re not sure how to react. Does he know what he’s saying? _Is it true?_

His eyes meet yours and they visibly come into focus. He sees you. Every muscle in his face reacts as the greatest sequence of emotions you’ve ever seen takes place right before your eyes: shock, disbelief, amusement, wonder, happiness.

Pure, unadulterated joy.

“You passed?”

“I passed!” he confirms, rushing up and grabbing you by both arms. “I passed!”

His smile is so wide that you’re sure it’s hurting _your_ cheeks until you realize you’re smiling as well. Smiling and laughing and being spun in the strong arms of a man who’s physically laboured for his dream. His lips find yours naturally and the smiles disappear. Hands move up your back and into your hair as you _feel_ him saying all the things you repeatedly told him not to say, that he insists on saying anyway.

Thank you for your help.

Thank you for your support.

Thank you for being you.

It takes your breath away.

Coming out of the kiss is like coming out of water for air but he’s there to hold you and anchor you, even if his heart’s also beating a mile a minute. His nose kisses yours but it’s his eyes you can’t stop looking at; they’re lit so brightly with hope and purpose that they seem to take on a color all their own.

“Did you ever think this day would come?” he asks. “Me, a licensed commercial pilot?”

You touch a hand to his face. You smile.

“Of course I did.”

The skeptical raise of his brow is entirely playful but you never get the chance to insist your words are true. He laughs and brings you back to him in a way you can’t resist: with the commanding presence of the captain you’ve always seen in him. His hand on your back presses your bodies together. His lips trail away from yours and you can feel the knowing grin press into your skin as his mouth on your neck elicits shivers and moans.

(He really has an excellent memory.)

A celebration is in order and preparations are made without a word; this is something you both know and know well. Doubt—whether past, present, or perceived—is forgotten as he pulls you into the other room, fully planning to prove that he’s learnt much more than the manual.

Your words _are_ true though.

You did think this day would come.

It was always going to come. He was always going to be a pilot.

You knew.

You always knew.

Because of how he makes you feel. Because of how he’s always made you feel.

Anxious.

Like that pivotal moment when lift overcomes weight and the aircraft leaves the ground.

Like seeing his joy at realizing his dream and knowing you genuinely feel it too.

Like admitting that you, you know that, well...

Anxious.


End file.
